


Dagger to the Heart (or leg)

by Fried__Rice



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-24 09:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fried__Rice/pseuds/Fried__Rice
Summary: All she can do is sit there and whimper in pain and fear as the figure approaches. It crouches beside her, a face looming above her, and Clarke tries to study it, to remember this person, the last face she may ever see.She can’t even bring herself to be overly upset about this fact, however, when the face comes into focus, because it’s possibly one of the most beautiful faces she’s ever seen.OrBellamy Blake is a paramedic. Clarke Griffin gets stabbed.





	1. In which Clarke is stabbed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so this is a little fanfic I just write for fun (aka it’s a bit of a mess). Name is still a working title, so if anyone has any better suggestions let me know. Also all my medical knowledge comes from Greys Anatomy so please ignore all the plotholes on that front  
> Hope you enjoy it!!  
> Feel free to leave kudos and review (pretty pretty please)  
> Xx

The first time Clarke meets Bellamy Blake she’s just been stabbed in the leg, so you could say it’s not _ideal_  circumstances.

It all starts when Jasper and Monty decide to take her clubbing. It’s Monty’s favorite way to deal with emotional issues, and boy is that an understatement for Clarke’s current predicament.

Monty’s dancing with his boyfriend Miller, while Jasper is trying to chat up a pretty, dimpled bartender (and failing). Clarke isn’t a big dancer, so she order a shot and upends it ungracefully into her mouth, wincing as it burns her throat, hoping it will take away her self awareness. She orders another. Then another. She’s on her fifth, when she realizes maybe this isn’t her best idea, as her head is starting to spin, and the ground appears to have turned into jelly. Her face feels hot, like she has a fever.

Then, a stroke of luck comes in the form of a cute, shaggy haired boy who introduces himself as Finn, and leads her to the dance floor. The music is crap, deafening heavy bass with a staticky excuse for a tune, but the alcohol kicks in, and Clarke loses herself easily in it. She dances with a reckless abandon, arms wrapped tightly around Finn.

He’s sweet, and smells like lavender, so when he leads her out the back of the pub she goes without complaint. And then, all of a sudden, they’re kissing, hotly, desperately, Clarke trying to forget this shitty week in his lips.

He breaks away abruptly, and she makes a noise of complaint low in her throat that makes him giggle adorably, and she decides she likes this Finn, more than she had thought she would ever like anyone after Lexa.

He smiles wide, all white teeth and laugh lines, and tells her he’s just going to run to the bathroom, but wait here, he’ll be right back, he promises. Clarke just nods and giggles, as he trails feather light kisses down her neck. Then he breaks away, and darts inside, with a wink.

She stands still for a second, smiling, hand brushing her neck, thinking maybe breakups aren’t so bad, when the door opens again. She turns, beaming, expecting Finn, but it’s just a bartender, a stout guy with jet black hair and big eyes, who smirks knowingly at her, and offers her a cigarette. Clarke doesn’t really smoke, but tonight she’s trying new things, so she accepts politely, and he lights it for her, making casual conversation that she certainly won’t remember tomorrow.

His name is Murphy and his dad owns the bar. “Cool,” she slurs, “I’m Clarke.” 

“Are you with that guy?” Murphy asks as if he already knows the answer, “the one with all the hair?” 

Clarke giggles, the sound bubbling up against her will, and nods. “His name’s Finn, and he’s my rebound,” she sings, albeit off key.

Murphy laughs. 

“My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday,” she says seriously, but it’s hard to stay serious when she accidentally pokes herself in the nose with the cigarette, and she bursts into fits of giggles again. Murphy smiles, and the expression looks unfamiliar on him, as if he’s not entirely sure how to do it.

“I’m sorry about that, Clarke.” He says, and she feels he really means it. She’s about to wrap him in a hug, this new friend, when the dimpled bartender Jasper was chatting up pokes her head out the door. 

“Fag break over, Murph” she calls, “stop chatting up the girl and come on, it’s getting busy.”

“Coming,” He hollers back, making a face at Clarke. “I have to go. You gonna be okay out here on your own?” The look of concern on his face is touching, if somewhat embarrassing. Some part of her wonders how drunk she must be if he thinks she can’t stand here and wait for five minutes without getting into trouble. 

She nods firmly. “Finn’s coming back in a minute.” She says it so full of confidence that she suddenly wishes it was acceptable to be this drunk all the time. Certainly her self esteem could do with the boost. Murphy nods, looking unsure. “Okay, well if he’s not here in ten minutes, come inside, I’ll sort you out.”

Now Clarke does hug him, this nice man who reminds her of her childhood best friend Wells; protective and sweet. He stiffens, then hugs her back, arms tentative but firm.

“Bye Clarke.” He grins, stubbing out his cigarette, “enjoy your smoke. And your boy.”

And then she’s alone again. She takes a drag from the cigarette, and dissolves into a fit of coughing, remembering now why she doesn’t smoke. She stubs it out on the ground, beginning to grow impatient. Where is Finn gone?

She’s all but ready to call it a night, when she hears the heavy pitter patter of footsteps coming towards her. She looks up hopefully, but they don’t come from the bar, but the street adjacent to it. A boy, late teens, advances slowly towards her. Lanky limps and hollow face, she feels a pang of pity for him, for this hollow looking boy.

She doesn’t feel alarmed, not at first, not even when he stations himself right in form of her- he’s just so young, his face so pale and afraid.

“You okay?” She asks, studying his face.

“Give me your purse.” Is his flat response, as if he’s reading it from a cue card.

It’s almost comical, the way he delivers it, the long second it takes for her drunken brain to process what he says.

She furrows her brow. “No.” It sounds unsure, unsteady, even to herself.

Some bit of her wonders if she should be afraid, but it just feels too ridiculous, this skinny little boy asking her so politely, that she just smiles.

Now he looks a mixture between afraid and angry, and too late she realizes he has a knife in his shaking hand, a long jagged thing, that plunges into her thigh before she can even register it, causing pain to erupt in her leg, like nothing she had ever felt before. It was agonizing, like someone had injected fire into her veins. 

_I fucked up._

She hears herself cry out, and collapse to the ground, and feels the boy root through her pockets. She tried to push him off, but she can’t seem to move, all she can think is a long string of unprintable curse words.

She doesn’t go unconscious, exactly, she just can’t seem to bring herself to move, stars dot her vision, as she lays slumped against the wall. Her leg doesn’t even really hurt that much anymore, but she can feel the gaping wound somehow, the leaking of her body into the floor.

She feels certain the boy left with her wallet, but beyond that, she isn’t too sure what’s going on, or what she should do next. She feels certain time has passed, but it could be a period anywhere between minutes and weeks.

A scream suddenly slices through her hazy mind, hands grip her shoulders, and she thinks she hears Jasper yelling in the midst of it all. Sirens echo somewhere far far away, and she vaguely wonders who’s been hurt.

It isn’t until she sees the lights of an ambulance beside her, that everything starts to fall into place.

_That bastard stabbed her._

Everything slowly starts to become clearer to Clarke, like she’s just stood up after lying down for a long time, and there’s a rushing noise in her ears as she eventually plummets back into reality.

Her relief is short lived, however, when a wave of pure agony washes over her, and she groans, wishing she was back in the daze.

She hears footsteps advancing towards her, and she wants to get away from this potential attacker, but her arms don’t seem to want to move. All she can do is sit there and whimper in pain and fear as the figure approaches. It crouches beside her, a face looming above her, and Clarke tries to study it, to remember this person, the last face she may ever see.

She can’t even bring herself to be overly upset about this fact, however, when the face comes into focus, because it’s possibly one of the most beautiful faces she’s ever seen.

It’s a man, a man with tousled dark hair, bronzed skin and green eyes. These descriptions don’t even seem to do his beauty justice, as she studies him in silent rapture. His hair is brown, bordering on black, and curls over his forehead like winding tendrils of smoke. His skin is smooth, freckles dotting his nose like stars, and his green eyes are flecked with gold, and are framed by thick dark lashes.

He looks like Peter Pan if he had grown up.

“What’s your name?” He asks her softly, as he unwraps a roll of white cotton material. “Clarke.” She croaks, and the cost of saying that word is monumental, and leaves her exhausted.

“Okay Clarke, my name is Bellamy. You’ve been in a bit of a nasty accident, but you’re going to be fine. I’m just going to wrap up your leg up now to stop the bleeding.”

She nods, eyes squeezing shut. She feels this is probably a panicked situation, but she can’t bring herself to feel anything except the pain in her thigh. “I’m going to have to expose the wounded area, Clarke, so I’m just going to lift up your skirt, is that okay?”

Her eyes snap open. Loss of pride or loss of life. She picks pride.

“Yeah, sure.” She hisses, teeth gritted. Man, no one ever tells you how painful being stabbed is.

His hand slides up her leg, one hand presses her thigh, above the wound, and if she weren’t in so much pain and hadn’t lost so much blood, she would probably be blushing.

He moves quickly, wrapping fabric tightly around her leg, so tight she wonders if the blood can even flow. It’s painful- exceedingly painful- and she locks her hands together, squeezing to try and relieve the burning ache.

“Clarke?”

It’s Monty, voice quivering. He’s crouched on her other side, and he brushes a piece of sweaty hair out of her eyes. She can see Jasper peeking out from behind him, all big eyes, and pale cheeks.

“Oh hey guys.” The more she speaks, the easier it becomes, so she decides to keep talking. “I got stabbed.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Monty sounds dumbfounded, his face is pale, and Clarke is a bit annoyed. She’s the one who’s meant to be in shock.

“Okay guys, I’m going to need you to take a step back,” Bellamy’s gruff voice again. Monty and Jasper take a dazed step back. Jasper looks like he might collapse at any second.

“Clarke, we’re going to get you up onto the stretcher now, and take you to the hospital,” Bellamy says to her, voice authorative. There’s suddenly another paramedic there- how long has she been there?- and between the two of them they somehow manage to load her onto the stretcher. She lays there, flat as a pancake, the world hazing in and out of focus.

“Can I come?” Monty asks breathlessly, and Clarke wants to pet him on the head, he’s so lost and cute looking. She takes a minute to wonder if maybe she’s still drunk.

“You guys will have to follow us there, sorry kid,” one of the paramedics says, a pretty, curly haired girl. Clarke feels somewhat indignant on his behalf.

“He’s not a kid.” No one acknowledges her.

“We need to leave now, she’s lost more blood than I’m happy with.” Bellamy says to the girl paramedic, suddenly brisk. “Ask for her at reception, they’ll sort you out.” He directs this to the very stricken looking Monty, who nods. Clarke can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows visibly.

Then she’s in the back of an ambulance, a place she’s only ever seen once, on her sixth grade field trip. The girl is saying something into what looks like a walkie talkie, while Bellamy places his fingers on Clarke’s pulse point, brow furrowed. The pain is stronger than ever, a persistent throbbing that will not cease. 

She thought she might have gotten used to it by now, but it washes over her anew every minute, and she grits her teeth and clenches her fists helplessly.

She feels like crying, but she holds it together, determined not to cry in front of these two ridiculously good looking paramedics.

“Airways clear, breathing is steady, pulse is weak but regular.” She hears him say to the girl, “She’s going to need stitches, but the wound hasn’t pierced any major artery as far as I can tell. It’s a shallow wound, she was lucky.”

The girl nods and continues saying indecipherable words into her walkie talkie.

“Clarke,” Bellamy murmurs, his gravelly voice oh-so-gentle, “can you answer some questions for me?”

Clarke nods, then regrets it, as the tiny movement sends a pulsation through her limp, and she groans.

“I know, it hurts like a bitch right now, but when we get you to the hospital we can drug you right up. Are you allergic to any meds, or latex?”

“No.” She says hoarsely.

“Ok, any history of medical issues?”

“Not that I know of.” Hoarsely, again.

“Ok, are you on any meds at all at the moment?” Negative again.

“Any alcohol or drugs in your system at all right now?” She nods slightly. “Five tequila shots,” she mumbles. “Okay, over what period of time?” She pauses. “Five minutes?”

Now he pauses. “Okay.” Mutters something to the girl, who she hears him call Gina.

Her cheeks are burning, and it’s suddenly very important to her that they know she isn’t always like this. “I’m not a big drinker,” she reaches out to grasp his wrist suddenly, he turns to her and nods, humoring her.

“My girlfriend just broke up with me.”

“Rough week.” Gina whistles. Bellamy’s gorgeous eyes have a hint of pity in them, as he exchanges a look with Gina.

“Tell me about it.” Clarke says thickly, eyes starting to drift shut. She doesn’t know if they’ve given her something, or if it’s just the alcohol and exhaustion kicking in, but the pain has subsided slightly, and she’s suddenly very sleepy. The last thing she sees is Bellamy’s concerned gaze as she fades off into nothing.

The smell of disinfectant is what wakes her from her peaceful slumber. It’s like a slap in the face, that chemical, too clean smell, that does absolutely nothing for her pounding headache.

Her eyes crack open, and she’s staring at a white- impossibly white- ceiling. She looks around the small room- and realizes she’s not in a room- more like a cubicle, separated by a thin curtain.

And her mom is next to her.

Abby Griffin is not exactly the warmest of women, so Clarke wasn’t expecting tearful cries of “I was so worried!” or anything from her. Still the mere nod of acknowledgement she receives feels lackluster.

“You’ve decided to join us then.” Abby says stiffly.

Clarke’s throat is dry- too dry to answer, and Abby hands her a cup of water, that she eagerly gulps down. “How long have I been out?” Clarke rasps.

Abby gazes at her, and the look in her steely blue eyes is unreadable. Concern? Pity? Rage? She has no idea.

“Three hours.” Abby says eventually. “I’m your emergency contact in your phone so they called me.” 

Clarke made a mental note to change that as soon as possible. “How bad is it?” She asks. That’s one thing Clarke can always count on Abby for; the cold hard truth.

“Not bad.” Abby replies, with a brief attempt at a smile, “the wound wasn’t deep, and luckily missed any major vessels. They’ve stapled it up, so you should be good to go by tomorrow.” Clarke nods, relieved.

For the first time she looks down at the leg- bandaged up, she can’t feel it at all anymore.

“They also said you might experience some side affects from the anesthesia, as they had to use more due to the extensive-“ Abby shoots her a scathing look “-amount of alcohol in your system.”

Clarke’s cheeks redden, but she holds Abby’s steely gaze.

“You’ve sobered up anyways, they had you on a drip.” Abby’s brow furrows at this, and for the first time Clarke sees the concern Abby had felt for her, no matter how loathe she might be to admit it.

“I have to be getting back to Marcus,” Abby stands up, and Clarke is guilty for the relief she feels. She reconciled herself with the fact that her mother would rather go back to her boyfriend than spend any more time with her recently stabbed daughter.

“Next time you decide to poison your insides with alcohol, maybe make sure you aren’t in the vicinity of any potential murderers.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Clarke to fume in silence.

Mere minutes after her exit Jasper and Monty burst in, nearly tearing the curtain off the rails. They look pale, exhausted and probably still a little drunk. 

“Clarke!” Monty sounds on the verge of tears.

“Hey guys.” She smiles. They approach her warily, as if she’s a particularly explosive object. Monty sits tentatively in the chair Abby just occupied while Jasper perches at the end of the bed.

They both look on edge, as if they’re embarrassed about something.

“Clarke I am so sorry for not minding you,” Monty bursts out with eventually, “Maya said she’d seen him there before and he seemed normal, but I shouldn’t have let him take you outside, and then we didn’t know where you were and- and,” he’s breathing heavily now, Jaspers face is contorted, and Clarke realizes it wasn’t embarrassment she saw in his face, but shame.

“Hey,” she says softly, cutting him off. “It’s okay, I’m not your kid, you don’t have to babysit me.”

“Yeah but we should’ve kept a better eye on you at least,” Jasper says, frowning deeply, “you could’ve died, or something.”

“Guys, I’m not your responsibility,” Clarke feels a little exasperated, “you two just love taking the blame for everything, but this isn’t your fault. If anything it’s my fault for going outside with a stranger and then not noticing the big ass knife. It’s not your fault.”

They look unconvinced.

“Say it.” She orders, a steely glint in her eye that doesn’t allow for argument.

“It wasn’t our fault,” jasper mumbles, eyes fixed on the hem of the duvet. Clarke nods her approval, then turns her gaze to Monty.

Under her stare he physically withers, until a tiny, barely audible “not our fault,” exits his lips.

She smiles, pleased. “Good. Now get out, I want to sleep.”

********

 

Clarke is released a day later, with a stiff cast wrapped around her left thigh, and a lot of instructions on how to clean and re-bandage the wound. 

She had the mother of all hangovers, which certainly didn’t help with the pain, but she did like being able to to think clearly once again. 

It had made talking to the police a lot easier, anyways.

In the end, she had decided to not pursuit her attacker, as she had been too drunk to even remember what the kid even looked like, except sad. Something about the haunted look she remembered in his eyes tugged on her heartstrings, even after he shoved a knife into her leg. 

She makes her way- unsteadily, thanks to the multitude of food and teddy bears people had brought her (being stabbed has its perks)- to the front desk to get officially discharged.

That’s when she sees him.

At first she doesn’t remember him, only that his face rings as somewhat familiar, and what a face it is.

He’s leaning against the desk, casual as you like, laughing with the pretty dark-haired receptionist, half eaten apple in his hand.

It’s only when a small box of chocolates- a gift from Wells- topples off her embarrassingly large pile and clatters to the floor that he looks up at her.

And she suddenly remembers exactly who this gorgeous boy is.

Bellamy.

He walks towards her, with the confident swagger of someone who knows they have all the time in the world, picks up the chocolates and places it back in her arms.

“Wow, you really were pampered like a princess in here, weren’t you?” A smirk toys with the ends of his lips. And, damn it, it’s so sexy.

She laughs unsteadily in response. He squints at her suddenly, confusion in his face then it clears.

“You’re that girl, right? The one who got stabbed?”

She kind of wants the ground to swallow her whole, as she remembers how drunk and insane she had been.

“Yep, that’s me,” she says, and immediately regrets it. Why does everything she says to this boy sound so ridiculous?

“Clarke, right?” She would have been more flattered that he remembered her name, if it hadn’t been a mere 24 hours since they’d met.

She nods, not trusting herself to speak.

“How’s the injury?” She brushes a stray piece of hair out of her eyes, flustered. She can’t wait to get out of here. “It’s healing.”

It sounds abrupt, and Clarke suddenly feels bad. “Thank you, by the way. For saving my life.”

He grins, and it’s like the sun suddenly broke out right in front of her face- _fucking blinding_.

“Just doing my job.”

He throws his apple core in the bin, and winks at the receptionist, saluting Clarke.

“See you around.”

And then he’s gone. Clarke totters unsteadily to the front desk, stopping to take a breath to calm her nerves. The receptionist- Echo, her name tag says- meets her eyes with a conspiratorial look. “Girl, I know. Trust me, even the smartest girl turns to mush in front of him.”

Clarke smiles weakly. “Good to know.”


	2. In which Octavia has a brother

Clarke forgets about him after that.

Yes, he was cute, but cute boys are a dime a dozen, according to Monty.

She doesn’t know if she necessarily agrees with this, but she does think she doesn’t have time for boys, especially now she’s starting her first semester of college. 

She’s wanted to be an artist for as long as she can remember, much to her mother’s annoyance, so getting accepted into Arkadia University was pretty much a win-win situation.

The only thing Clarke loves more than painting is pissing off her mother. 

The next problem arises when she moves into her dorm, even though she doesn’t necessarily know it’s a problem at the time.

Octavia Blake is sweet, funny and keeps her side of the dorm ridiculously tidy. She doesn’t stay up late or get up early, and so far hasn’t brought anyone home to the room.

She’s also studying law, so Clarke figures she’ll probably be a handy connection to have later in life.

She’s practically flawless, as roommates go.

Until she reveals she has a brother.

“Yeah, when mom and dad died he basically raised me,” She remarks one day, when they’re sprawled on Clarke’s bed, eating popcorn.

The two clicked immediately, and two months into the semester, they’re close friends- the kind of close that can only come from living with someone. 

Still, this is the first time Octavia’s mentioned anything about her family, or her past, for that matter. 

“How old were you?” Clarke asks, keenly aware this is a sensitive topic. She doesn’t want to cause Octavia to clam up suddenly, as she’s been prone to do in the past.

“I was 16. Bell was 19,” Octavia’s voice is carefully neutral, and Clarke decides not to push anymore on that subject. 

Instead, she takes a different approach.

“Belle? Isn’t that like a girl’s name?” She says jovially.

“Bellamy.” Octavia explains, with an eye roll so perfect, it had to have been practiced. 

A piece of popcorn gets lodged in Clarke’s air pipe, and she starts vigorously coughing, hand thumping on her chest. 

“My parents had a thing for weird names, I guess,” Octavia looks at Clarke oddly, “are you alright?”

The popcorn finally frees itself, but Clarke still feels like she can’t breathe.

There aren’t a whole lot of people out there called Bellamy, as far as she knows.

“Um.. what does Bellamy do? Like for a living?” Clarke asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“He’s a paramedic. Noble cause and all that. Wish I was more like him, but I’m eternally squeamish, it seems.” Octavia’s voice is full of fondness as she speaks of him, and Clarke wonders if she’s being a bit ridiculous.

So what if he saved her life? And is gorgeous? And funny? And smart? And has a noble career? And probably a six pack?

She blinks to put her mind back on track, reprimanding herself.

She’s acting like he’s an ex, when she didn’t even know his name until two minutes ago.

Clarke is almost certain she inherited her melodrama from her mother. 

“Oh, yeah,” Clarke says, attempting a blasé tone of voice, “I think I’ve met him.”

Surprise registers on Octavia’s face, and she squints at Clarke. Then she looks alarmed.

“Oh. My. God.” Her voice is full of horror, “Clarke Griffin, have you slept with my brother?”

It’s a good thing Clarke wasn’t eating anymore popcorn, because she would have almost certainly choked and died at that.

“No! No! Oh my god. No.” Her face feels like it’s on fire.

Octavia lets out a peal of laughter, “I know. I’m just messing with you, he has a girlfriend.”

Now her face feels even hotter, but not from embarrassment this time.

“How _do_ you know him?” Octavia asks, grinning at Clarke’s ruddy cheeks.

Not for the first time, Clarke curses her fair skin. It makes it impossible for her to hide any emotion.

“I, uh, got stabbed, about two months ago.” No matter how many times she says that, it will never sound normal.

Whatever Octavia had even expecting, it certainly wasn’t that.

“By Bellamy?”

It’s Clarke’s turn to roll her eyes now. “No, dumbass, your brother was the paramedic on the scene.”

“Oh.” Disappointment fills Octavia’s face. “I was hoping for something juicy.”

“Did you not hear the part where I said I was stabbed?” 

“Oh yeah.” She contemplates this. “How did that happen?”

Clarke recounts the brief, but tragic tale.

“Jesus.” Octavia eyes Clarke’s leg when she’s finished, as if it might explode at any second. “You’re lucky it wasn’t more serious.”

Clarke agrees, to an extent.

The wound is still bandaged, but now she only feels a faint twinge now and again. The only souvenir she has from the attack is a long scar carved into her skin, already turning white.

It’s impossible to ignore, however, the thumping in her chest whenever she’s outside at night, the buzzing in her ears. The fear of someone lurking in the shadows.

Some scars aren’t just physical, it seems.

“That’s such a weird coincidence,” Octavia comments, “I can’t wait until you two actually meet.”

Clarke snorts. She can’t say she feels the same way.


	3. In which Clarke gets employed

It was inevitable really, that Clarke would have to get a job.

For such a small person, she really had a huge appetite, something she had in common with Octavia. This, combined with the weight of student loans, meant money quickly became an issue for them. 

She’s struck with a brainwave one day, walking home from her lecture, as she passes the grimy little pizza place just off campus.

She’s just gotten off the phone with her very infuriating mother (trying once again to convince her to switch courses- “ _art is just so insubstantial, darling_ ”) so admittedly she’s a little angrier than usual, which is what gives her the extra push to storm into the diner.

There’s a boy standing at the counter, who looks up- a tad wearily- when the door smacks shut behind her.

“Welcome to Grounders Pizza, where we put the- Clarke!?”

Clarke is having a similar reaction, as the familiar tousled hair boy with big doe eyes gapes back at her.

“Finn?”

They stare at each other for a minute.

“I didn’t know you were from here,” She remarks, by way of filling the uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah- I uh, go to Arcadia.”   
Clarke nods dumbly, “Me too. Just started, actually.”

He appears dumbfounded, staring at her like she’s come back from the dead.

Which isn’t surprising, really, considering he probably came back from the bathroom to see her being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

The silence is deafening, and Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but Finn cuts her off.

“Listen, I am so, so sorry I left you that night,” He bursts, and Clarke is slightly taken aback.

“No, it’s-its fine. Don’t worry about it,” She doesn’t really know how to reply to that. This isn’t a situation she’s ever had to deal with. 

“No it’s not. I got stuck in a queue for the bathroom, and when I came back, you were gone. They told me you were attacked or something, but I didn’t know your full name so I didn’t know how to find you.”

Now that he’s started talking, he’s gushing like a tap, and Clarke can’t get a word in edgewise. 

“What happened to you?” He eventually asks, hesitantly- fearfully- she realizes.

Clarke ponders the gentlest way she can put it.

“I was stabbed.”

That probably wasn’t it.

His mouth falls open, and words come tumbling out, again.

“Oh my god, Clarke, I am so, so sorry, really, I can’t believe that happened to you, oh my god,” He’s started up again, and Clarke resists the urge to cover his mouth with her hand.

“Listen, Finn,” she talks over him, waiting for him to take the hint and be quiet. He does, almost immediately.

“I need a job, is this place hiring?”

She wonders if it’s slightly manipulative, preying on his guilt for her personal means.

She decides she doesn’t really care at this point.

“Um, yeah, we are actually.”

She doesn’t know if he’s just saying that because he feels bad, but she decides not to question it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that.

“Start of the semester is usually busy, we could always use a few extra hands.”

Clarke grins. “Perfect, when can I start?”

*

“That’s not fair.” Octavia whines. “You used your feminine wiles to get employed, I don’t have that kind of power.”

Clarke snickers at this. Talk about pot and kettle.

“Says the girl who gets Lincoln to do her every bidding by batting her lashes.”

“I do not!” Octavia protests immediately, and interestingly, her cheeks colour up.

Clarke stares pointedly at her, and Octavia groans, loudly.

“Okay maybe sometimes, but I don’t _want_ to get a job. I’m terrible at talking to people.”

This much, at least, is true. Octavia can be blunt to the point of rudeness at the best of times. The filter between her brain and her mouth just doesn’t exist. 

“You’d better start working on it, because we can’t keep spending money on food the way we do.” Clarke retorts, not unwisely.

Octavia frowns, and Clarke knows she knows she’s right.

Her face suddenly lights up, “hey what if I get one in Grounders with you? Wouldn’t it be so fun working together?”

Clarke wrinkles her nose at this.

“I guess. What if we get sick of each other?”

Octavia smirks. “As if I’m not already sick of you.”   
Clarke throws a pillow at her.

*

“That has got to be the ugliest uniform I’ve ever seen,” Jasper remarks, chewing thoughtfully on a fry.

Clarke scowls at him. “Keep it up with the comments and my staff discount won’t extend to you anymore.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, if I hurt your feelings, princess.”

Finn lets out a bark of laughter from where he’s standing at the register. “Princess Clarke,” he repeats, wide grin on his face.

Wednesday afternoons used to be completely empty- because of the mid week discount in the canteen- but ever since Jasper met Octavia he’s been hanging around like a bad smell. Octavia, for the most part, seems uninterested, but Jasper is ever the optimist.

“That’s not sticking,” Clarke warns them, slamming Jasper’s drink down on the table.

“Whatever you say, princess,” Finn teases.

Jasper smirks triumphantly in the corner.

“Jasper, this has got to be the most disgusting creation known to man.” Octavia suddenly comes out of the kitchen, cheeks ruddy from the heat, clutching a silver tin tray. A monstrous looking pizza lies on top of it, practically sagging from the weight of all the toppings.

The tips of Jaspers ears have gone pink, but he still wears his trademark cocky smirk.  
“Everything except anchovies, baby. The dream meal.”

Clarke retches, making a face at Finn, who laughs.

He’s bent over the counter, writing something rapidly in a small notebook, and she watches him for a moment- his face contorted in concentration, teeth tugging on his bottom lip- until he notices her, and smiles.

“How’re you finding the job, princess?”

She frowns. “Would be a lot better if you stopped calling me that.”

He smirks then, that infuriating smirk that makes Clarke want to do something- she isn’t sure what.

Then he disappears into the kitchen, leaving a waft of his lavender and sandalwood scent that makes Clarke feel oddly tingly.

She wonders vaguely how screwed she is.


End file.
